


I'll Take Care of You

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M, Pedophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is teacher and a pedophile. Arthur is a student and 13, whose parents abuse him. Written for the Inception anon kink meme on LJ http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/19632.html?thread=46650544#t46650544</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Take Care of You

**Author's Note:**

> I do not, in any way, manner or form, condone pedophilia. I'm merely testing my boundaries here, finding where the depths of my morbid curiosity lies, so when I first saw the prompt, I went: 'Hmm.' and my brain went: 'En garde! Challenge accepted!' ...and here we are. Please don't burn me in effigy.
> 
> And it's a truly discomfiting though how perfect of a pedophile Eames would make. He could talk himself in and out of anything, which, distressingly, does nothing for my love for him.
> 
> I don't know how many chapters there will be as this is a WIP, but there will be an end to this someday.

Being a teacher was something Eames well and truly loved. All the adolescent boys, still naïve enough to cling to each of his words was something so very precious, almost heartbreakingly innocent, the way they usurped everything.

Arthur, in particular, the scrawny little thing in the third row, his hair in his eyes which he swept away with remarkable elegance every now and then, focusing intently, actually writing down notes, and if Eames wasn’t mistaken, entirely encompassed by Eames’s sheer presence.

Which worked well, since it was the image of Arthur’s big brown deer eyes, the curve of his lips to which Eames rubbed one out at nights. Or, rather, picturing how those eyes would look like looking up to him when the boy was on his knees, how the bow of Arthur’s upper lip would stretch gorgeously around Eames’s cock, the tentative little swipes of the tantalizing, soft tongue along Eames’s length, and how the boy was merely thirteen and, oh, so _illegally_ sweet.

And it was as if a godsend when Arthur, who never got into trouble so detention was out of order, suddenly developed difficulties with properly keeping up with the class.

The kid was obviously distracted during class, still struggling to take all those diligent notes, but was squirming in his seat for most of the time, clearly having trouble concentrating.

A week passed, and as a professional teacher, Eames happily asked Arthur to stay behind after class, to discuss some urgent matters.

Shuffling his feet, Arthur waded his way slowly to the teacher’s desk, chewing on the corner of his lip, eyes downcast and sullen. Eames could swear the boy was shaking.

Impulsively, Eames reached for Arthur’s shoulders, swallowing own the urge to hug him to his chest to comfort him, to whisper in his ear that it wasn’t really all that bad, that everyone ha bouts of distraction, that Arthur could tell everything, anything, to Eames, who was, in fact, his teacher, and therefore, an adult he could trust inexplicitly.

When Arthur looked up, his lip still between his teeth, Eames forged on his most friendly smile and squeezed Arthur’s narrow shoulders encouragingly. “Whatever it is, Arthur, you can tell me. Is it something at home? Are your parents all right? Nobody’s bullying you, are they?”

Arthur just shook his head, frowning as if to try to seek for the right words, and leaned his hip to the desk, his eyes beginning to water and his released lower lip trembling minutely. “I don’t…” Arthur brushed a hand through his hair insecurely, leaning into Eames’s broad hands, which, instinctively, made Eames’s heart leap. There was no question about it. Arthur was beautiful, even on the brink of tears, or perhaps even more beautiful because of it.

“I don’t know how to talk about it,” Arthur finally confessed, a single tear escaping while he sniffled indignantly, much too much so for a young teen.

Much, much to Eames’s eternal surprise, Arthur stepped forth, between Eames’s legs where he was sitting, and wrapped his arms around Eames’s neck, now crying freely, hiding his face to Eames’s neck.

And it wasn’t exactly the circumstances under which Eames had planned on making his move, but he’d take the opportunity as it was so prettily handed to him.

Everything Eames knew about Arthur went flashing through his head as he tried to keep erection from pressing against Arthur’s delicate hips while the boy clung to him like a vice. He knew the boy’s parents were deeply religious, so that could be an issue at hand. He knew something might’ve happened at home that could’ve brought this on - it had happened before. Eames didn’t have the details, but the way Arthur had been acting like the Devil himself were hot upon his heels, the deep pain on his face of someone who had committed a mortal sin, and the erratic strings of sentences he’d managed to squeeze out of Arthur had cued Eames into guessing that it had something to do with Arthur entering into boyhood. Which had, without hesitation, went right own to his cock.

It wouldn’t have been an exaggeration, claiming that Eames was in love.

Here, having Arthur in his arms, feeling the nigh existent weight of the boy, was heaven - Eames’s heart soaring with as much pleasure as pain for Arthur’s apparent suffering - his mind frantically trying to grasp a way to take this out of the classroom, out of school, and into his flat where he could properly distract Arthur into telling him what had happened, and if Eames had any ulterior motives, then there would be a time for that, later.

Being a firm believer in direct actions, Eames carefully pried away Arthur’s arms, starling the boy enough for him to jump, which only made Eames haul him back, petting away Arthur’s tears with his thumb.

Murmuring, Eames held Arthur close; “I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it here… Am I right?”

Eames could feel Arthur nodding against his shoulder, and could imagine the lip already finding its way back between his teeth. The nod at least told Eames that Arthur actually wanted to talk about it. With him.

“Alright, sweetheart. Off we go.” Blessedly, the day was over and they were both free to leave, so Arthur extracted himself from Eames to gather his things, and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Where are we going?” The inflection of Arthur’s voice expressed only intrigue.

“My place, if that’s alright. At least no one will be eavesdropping there, and by the looks of it, that’s the last thing you’d want.”

Arthur nodded vehemently as a response, and waited for Eames to lead the way to his car.

Upon arriving to Eames’s apartment complex, Arthur took the building in, such as it was - old and nothing much to look at, but it was warm in the winters and cool enough during summers, with enough room for Eames’s solitary life, complete with neighbors who took Eames bringing in kids in the stride of him being a teacher, so for Eames, it was perfect.

Ascending the stairs to the second floor, Arthur looked around curiously, as if studying his surroundings to memorize everything… Just like he’d on the way here, like he wanted to know the route, so he could take it again.

Although this was all probably just wishful thinking on Eames’s part.

Eames ushered Arthur in and into the kitchen, prompting him to take off his jacket and sit own, while Eames poured them both classes of Fanta. Sliding the glass to Arthur, Eames watched as the boy gulped it own eagerly, and blushed so very tantalizingly when he burped quietly right after.

Eames’s smile was infectious, as Arthur started giggling, his embarrassment forgotten already, and Eames poured him some more.

After a careful sip, Arthur grew solemn again, looking anywhere but Eames, and began; “So…”

“Yes, Arthur? Remember, anything you say or do here, stays between you and me. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I want you to know that.”

With a resignated sigh only a 13-year-old can muster, Arthur stood up slowly. “I think I better show you.”

And to Eames’s utter shock, Arthur begun to take his shirt off. Eames was not going to stop him.

The first glimpse of Arthur’s pale stomach made Eames’s own flutter, the hem of the shirt rising as if in slow motion, revealing more and more of forbidden skin, until Arthur’s chest was bared and his hair was tousled from when he’d tugged the shirt off over his head. Eames swallowed hard, shifting in his seat, begging his features to keep calm, and please, please not let on how much he wanted to lick a stripe across that bird-like chest, swirl his tongue over those impossibly small nipples until they were hard and Arthur barely aware of what was happening to him.

And then Arthur turned around.

The welts across his back weren’t that deep, but they were numerous, as if he’d been whipped with a length of cord, and the sight of it made Eames’s blood boil.

Feeling murderous, “Who did this?“ he managed to growl out, hands clenching into fists on his thighs at the thought of someone doing this to _his_ Arthur.

“My father.” Arthur’s voice wasn’t even faltering, though the streak of anger was audible. He didn’t turn around, didn’t need questioning before continuing; “And my mother. She told him to hit harder, to banish the devil from me. They did it in the name of God.”

Eames felt his tongue thick in his mouth when he pried his mouth open to utter; “This is not the first time, is it.” It wasn’t a question. This explained a lot. The welts creeping below the waistband of Arthur’s slacks (proper, always so bloody proper, but now it made more sense; clearly things like jeans were the creation of pure evil,) spoke for themselves, and Eames could imagine them following down Arthur’s thighs, and surely Eames himself was doomed to hell for wanting to sooth and lick that damaged skin until it was all better.

“No, it’s not,” Arthur still didn’t turn, as if it was easier for him to have this conversation, to confess, without having to look at his teacher. “But it’s only when I’ve been naughty that it gets this bad. Usually it’s just a few lashes with a belt.”

“Naughty?” Eames nearly choked on the world, not even daring to delve into the implications of that.

Sighing, his bare shoulders slumping, visibly shaking himself in order to brace himself for his own words, Arthur half-turned towards Eames, but still didn’t make eye contact. “The first time it got this bad was when I was eight. My mother found my soiled boxers, an yes, I do know what wet reams are. At least I do now,” he paused to swallow, and brazenly, hooked Eames’s eyes with his own. “I didn’t, then, and I couldn’t understand what I’d done wrong. But it kept happening an I always got beaten. I don’t even know how they always found out.”

Torn, was the word Eames was looking for, to describe his feelings. The mindblowing arousal coming from the thought of Arthur coming in his sleep was nearly enough to upend him, but the balancing force of rage towards Arthur’s parents kept him somewhat in check, although it did nothing for the flush which came from the controversial feelings.

“I’m guessing this time was for something else?” Eames inquired, hands twitching with want to hold Arthur, to scoop him away from all that was wrong in the world.

“Yeah,” Arthur scratched the back of his neck idly, once again looking away from Eames, a pretty shade of pink flushing his chest and rising to his delicate cheekbones. “I got caught jerking off.”

Arthur shuffled his feet, scrunching his face in confusion that he’d actually managed to get the words out to begin with.

“You, uh…” Eames lost his footing. The earth itself shifted beneath him as the words hit his consciousness, and suddenly his mouth was dry, which was convenient since he could buy some time by taking a sip from his soda.

“Yeah,” said Arthur, remarkably comfortable, no doubt unaware of the gravity of his words, or the impact they had on Eames.

Eames got a grip of himself. It was a loose grip, but a grip nonetheless, and stood up from his chair, stepping over to Arthur, reclaiming their previous position back at school, holding Arthur by the shoulders. And despite all the thoughts roiling in his mind, Eames could not help but to slide his hands down Arthur’s arms a little way, to feel the smooth skin under his fingers, and throwing all caution to the wind, kept going, own to Arthur’s knobby wrists, and up again, the picture of how he could cover all of Arthur with his own body, have himself curled around the boy with ease, feel the slender form against his chest, tangle his legs with Arthur’s and push a thigh between Arthur’s… “You know it’s perfectly normal for a young man to do that, right?”

Looking solemnly straight into Eames’s eyes, Arthur scoffed, and then, without any conviction in his tone, announced; “Self-defiling, Mr. Eames, is a sin. It goes against God.” His eyes were dull.

“I’m sure that’s what your parents say, darling, but sometimes even parents have it wrong. Look what they’ve done to you…” Eames frowned and gathered Arthur’s chin in his palm, holding tenderly. “Arthur. Do you believe in God?” Knowing full well that it is a loaded question, something that a thirteen-year-old probably hadn’t contemplated, but he had faith in Arthur. Surely, with his undeniable intelligence and upbringing, he must’ve questioned his parents’ beliefs.

Arthur tried to slump his head down, but was stopped by Eames’s hand. “No, he whispered, eyes going lively again, full of apprehension. “But I fear Him, His wrath, every time my father lays a hand on me.”

Eames let his smile grow loving at the words, shaking his head in understanding, and while doing so, he whisked whatever self-preservation was left in him the same way the caution went, and took a risk. There really was no time like the present. “And would you know what that hateful God might say about me?”

Looking puzzled, Arthur raised his brow and opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it, and closed his jaw with a snap.

“I’m evil and wicked, what I am, is worthy of death. My way of life is contrary to sound doctrine, and all in all, God gave up on me a long time ago. But then again, I did the same to Him.”

This brought a small smile upon Arthur’s face, his eyes glinting with knowledge, and the smile broadened when Eames’s expression turned into a grin.

“You’re, uh… Gay,” Arthur hazarded, seemingly not fazed by this in the slightest.

“And you just earned yourself a gold star for that,” Eames chuckled, letting go of Arthur’s chin and lowering his hand back to Arthur’s shoulder. “Now, lets have a look at those sores of yours, eh?”

Obligingly, Arthur turned and Eames let his hands wander along Arthur’s sides, careful, but enough to commit each expanse of skin into memory. The welts, on a closer look, seemed even worse, as it was obvious the cuts had not been attended to in any way.

“Right. Now, go lay on the sofa and I’ll be right back. Your back needs to be cleaned post-haste. An then we’re going to see a doctor.”

“No! No doctors! My father will kill me!” Arthur panicked, gripping on Eames’s arm with all his might, eyes pleading in horror.

“Alright, calm down,” Eames placed a hand atop Arthur’s, stroking his hand with his thumb, calming him like he would a wounded animal. “I’ll see what I can do myself, an then we’ll talk about this, okay?”

Petulant, but knowing he didn’t have much of a choice, except make a run for it and suffer through the welts infecting like times before, and thought better about that.

Complacent, he laid on the sofa and waited.

“I don’t want to go home,” Arthur mumbled into a pillow when he heard footsteps approaching, wincing already, both at the thought of his parents and apprehensive of the inevitable pain the iodine was going to cause.

The was a distinct silence in the room for a pregnant while before Eames cleared his throat and managed in a rough voice; “You don’t have to. I’ll handle it.” And already there was a plot forming in his mind. The parents would be easy. They always were.

\--

Well, the phone call went well. All it took was to convince Arthur’s father of the fact that Mr. Eames, Arthur’s teaches, was now aware of the child abuse, an the next step would be going to the police, an it was out of the question that Arthur would come home for the night. Eames had even arranged a meeting with Arthur’s parents, under the pretense that this could all still be talked through an mends would be made.

Eames had no intention on attending to said meeting, nor had he any designs to allow these monsters lay a finger on Arthur ever again. He was even serious about the police, albeit a little hesitantly, as Arthur was within an earshot, and paled at the mention of authorities. Authorities other than Mr. Eames himself, that was.

But that was something of a tomorrows task. Tonight, they had free reign, Arthur visibly more relaxed now that he sat on the sofa after being looked after, in more comfortable clothes than what he’d had to wear every day of his life thus far, an was now donned in one of Eames’s smallest tees, the most slimmest sweatpants he could find, an even those were drooping an pooling all over Arthur, despite the futile attempt of tightening the strings of the pants within an inch of their life, the legs hiked an rolled just below his knees.

The shirt showed off Arthur’s shoulder, and his hair was an unholy mess. To Eames, it was the very picture of adorable.

It was too early for dinner, so Eames sat down next to Arthur, grabbing the remote and flicking on the flat-screen TV, switching through a few channels every time Arthur made a glorious face of utter disbelief that he should be deigned to watch that.

Finally, they settled for _Family Guy_ , and Arthur hitched a leg under him, leaving the other dangling over the edge, leaning back with a contended sigh.

After a moment of rather companionable silence, Arthur sighed again an turned his focus on Eames, who was staring at the telly blindly.

“I can’t believe I don’t have to go home tonight. I can‘t believe you did that for me.”

“I’d do many things for you, Arthur,” Eames said honestly, almost mirroring Arthur by lifting his leg beneath him and throwing his arm over the back of the sofa, fingers itching to ruffle the hair on the back of Arthur’s head.

For another moment, the two watched the happenings on the screen, but Arthur couldn’t stay silent. “You were serious about the police, right?”

“Yes.”

Arthur acquired his habit of biting his lip again, pondering, before breathing out in a gust of open worry. “What will happen to me?”

This time, Eames gave in to the urge to touch the boy and palmed the back of his neck, fingers skating over skin. “I’ll take care of you.”

“What, you’ll be my new Daddy?” Arthur, wide-eyed an incredulous, ha the audacity to smirk after the comment, an Eames could help but laugh.

“There’s an idea,” chuckled Eames, doing his best to ignore the nigh sickening twist of desire in the bottom of his stomach, and managed to dismiss the thought for long enough to speak, “We’ll figure something out. Don’t worry. And whatever you do, don’t blame yourself of anything that might happen.” Eames grew serious, “Things will be said an done that will hurt you and your parents, but I can promise you I’ll never be far, and you can always talk to me about anything.” He paused for impact before continuing, Arthur’s eyes keen on him. “Promise me you’ll do that. Don’t keep secrets from me, an I won’t keep secrets from you.” Lifting his hand to brush over Arthur’s cheek, Eames’s voice softened. “In fact, we can have our very own secrets that no one else have to know about.”

“Like what?” And to Eames’s great surprise, Arthur didn’t sound the least bit suspicious. No. Eager, almost.

“Hmm…” Eames stroked Arthur’s neck with his hand, sliding it across the boy’s bare shoulder as if in deep thought. He could feel his pulse in his throat as Arthur unconsciously leaned into the touch.

“Like… That we can have breakfast for dinner, or wake up in the middle of the night to watch a movie, or that…” Eames trailed off, raising his other hand to cup Arthur’s chin, eyes flickering from Arthur’s mouth to his eyes, looking for any sign of discomfort.

Upon not finding any, he ventured back into his little speech with a twist. “Have you had your first kiss yet?”

Arthur glanced own at his knees before braving to look up again. “Yes, but I didn’t really like it. You know Ariadne? She kinda had me cornered, and I…” Arthur shrugged, nonchalant. “I didn’t like it. I don’t have nothing against her, and I think she’s my friend,” he hastened to add, “but it didn’t, you know, do anything for me.” And then he shrugged again.

“Then who would you like to kiss?” Eames leaned a bit closer, conspiring. “Remember, these are secrets, between you and me.”

“I can’t-- I, it doesn’t, uh…” Stammering, Arthur blushed a shade of red Eames hadn’t witnesses yet, and the sight made his heart flutter. “Secrets, Arthur,” Eames thumbed Arthur’s nose playfully, urging him on, gaining Arthur’s averting his for his efforts.

“I really can’t. I mean, it’s not…” Arthur began to rub his palms onto his thighs, obviously ridding himself of the sudden sweating. “I don’t know!” he finally claimed, triumphantly, boyishly, and Eames’s heart sank with his raising, soaring, impossible hope.

“Is it someone I know?” Eames said seriously, letting his hand fall into his lap while the one across Arthur’s shoulders squeeze encouragingly.

“Yes.” Arthur agreed with distinct trouble, and that seemed to be it, as Arthur clamped shut as if withholding a precious pearl. Which, in Eames’s opinion, was exactly what it was.

“And you can’t tell me about this person because…?”

“You’ll make me go home.”

“And why on earth would I do that?” Eames knew he shouldn’t really press the matter, go easy on Arthur, give him room and let time do its magic, but it was much too much to ask from Eames at this point, having Arthur in his arms, in his clothes, in his flat, practically confessing something potentially earth shattering, like…

“You.”

Eames could barely, only barely, keep his gasp in check, an was glad as hell for his hand in his lap, as it covered his cock twitching very conveniently. And yet, he had to play it cool.

“Me what?” And really, Eames had to fight to keep the imploring tone out of his suddenly hoarse voice. Arthur still didn’t look at him.

“It’s you,” Arthur tried to shy away from Eames, as if succumbing to his fate, but Eames would not have any of that, so he tightened his hold fraction, easing the force with the stokes of his palm.

Playing oblivious and praying (Hah!) that it was the right route to take, he acted dumb, “I’m…what, exactly?”

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur, exasperated with himself as much as with Eames, rolled his eyes, “is who I want to kiss,” and this time, when Arthur pounce from the sofa, Eames had no choice but to let him go.

Shifting minutely, correcting his stance now that there suddenly was an Arthur-shaped gap in his world, Eames gave a thoroughly practiced confused look at Arthur, before schooling his features into something more tender. Something more approachable, and not predatory at all.

“I suppose you want me to go now,” Arthur made towards the bathroom where his own clothes lay in the hamper.

“Arthur. No,” Eames leapt up, arms stretched in a manner conveying innocence, and stepped forth. “I promised, didn’t I? You can tell me anything.”

Arthur, frozen to the spot, eyed Eames suspiciously for a spell before relaxing minutely, balancing his weight from one leg to the other, shuffling a bit to get the pant leg from under his toes where it had unraveled when he’d fled. “You don’t mind?”

And how could a thirteen-year-old sound so incredibly incredulous, Eames had no idea.

What he did know, was that a diversion tactic was in order.

“Come on, pet. Let’s go make some dinner.”

 

TBC


End file.
